Flutter
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Her coat tails flapped in the breeze as her pace suddenly devolved, turning into a staggering half run as the material flared out behind her like a banner. It was the only sound in the encompassing quiet – adding harmony to the abyss as her pale throat worked around a sudden sob. - (TWD/Mist AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead." As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, _Daryl_.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, cannon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

He found her in the mist. A quivering thing, lost. Her cheeks were stained with half-dried tear tracks and feathered with a fine splattering of gore. Her pretty, cream colored top was stained with it, a mixture of sweat and blood that had been allowed to drip-dry – muted with exertion and a few half-aborted attempts to wipe it away.

The blood wasn't hers - that was what he noticed first. That and the fact that she was holding a nail file out in front of her like a buck knife. It was something which, by itself, may have even been impressive if it hadn't been for the fact that she was about five seconds away from tripping head first into a very painful and unnecessarily agonizing death.

_Fuckin' spiders._ Or at least he _thought _they were spiders anyway.

The road ahead was thick with the little motherfuckers. And, unlike when they were on the move the day before, there was no avoiding them now. Because sometime overnight they'd started nesting in the trees, turning forest canopies into kill zones and small clearings into mazes of sticky silk and alien sounds - clicks and chirps that would echo through the mist as the screams of the dying rose and fell in the muted hush.

It was a fresh one too; the kind where the blood was still warm and the…_spiders _were skittering unconcernedly over _mounds_ of not quite limp flesh. The kind where the people that were still alive whimpered and reached out as you passed, forcing yourself not to react as blunt nails scrabbled desperately across your skin, their pleads hitching into the silence as you bite down on the inside of your cheek – trying to convince yourself that you had no choice, that you _couldn't _help them.

Knowing that if you stopped, if you paused and even _tried _to help you'd be right there next to them, suffocating in swaddled silk as the things of nightmares stalked you - scuttling up the length of your chest with their stingers raised as the body next to you starts to convulse. Forcing you to listen, paralyzed, as a chest, a belly, a smooth span of flesh suddenly bulges outwards, _tearing _as a million squirming little flecks burst out their bodies like vomit – leaving you knowing that all _this_, this fucked up horror of a thing would be the last thing you'd ever feel.

He knew because he'd just come from there - three bolts and seven shotgun shells ago.

He bit his lip as he watched her hurry past. His boots sunk deep into the muddy clay as he unfolded himself from his crouch, still hidden amidst the undergrowth that lined the side of the road as she stumbled determinedly down the blacktop. Exhaustion and stress highlighted her expression as she peered into the fog, looking as lost as he felt as a soft little sound of dismay rose from her throat.

She wasn't going to make it. She didn't know-

A soft chitter rose up from the brush somewhere up ahead. It wouldn't be long now. They had her scent or maybe his. Either way he knew how to disappear, even from these…_things_. She didn't. It would be a necessary evil, letting them have her. She would die so that he could live. It was simple really.

His lips pulled back in a soundless snarl when she suddenly turned, her blue eyes blown wide as she seemed to stare right at him – whirling around in a half circle as something fast whipped across the road just behind her. He closed his eyes, but her expression was burned into his eyelids. Staring at him, no, _judging_ him as he tried to tell himself that he didn't care.

She reminded him of a bird, a starling, no, a _robin_, he decided, as he took in her red hair and proud nose. He cocked his head as the image slowly took shape. She was a bird without a cage, uncertain of what to do with her freedom now that she had it.

Her coat tails flapped in the breeze as her pace suddenly devolved, turning into a staggering half run as the material flared out behind her like a banner. It was the only sound in the encompassing quiet – adding harmony to the abyss as her pale throat worked around a sudden sob.

_What was she looking for? _

She was a wild thing, he knew that almost instinctively. She was strong, not because she had been born that way, but more because she had to be. She was strong because the world was not as perfect as they had been promised. There were no storybook endings or knights in shining armor, just people – flawed, warped and unpredictable. And better yet, the monsters their parents had assured them _didn't _exist were stalking them through the mist.

In a sense she was a contradiction, she was fierce, yet tame. And honestly, it showed. After all, she had to be either brave or stupid wandering out in the open like this, her purse clutched tightly in front of like some sort of fucked up shield as her mud-splattered heels clicked across the uneven asphalt.

_She had somewhere to be._

The muscles in his neck burned as something inside him wavered. _Damnit._

He was out of his element here and he knew it. These things, these creatures had changed the rules. The natural order, the god damned food chain, you name it. He had no idea what they were or where they'd come from, he'd been hunting when the storm had hit. It had blown in from the east, up and over the mountains faster than any storm he'd ever seen. He hadn't even had time to make it back to the road. He'd been forced to hunker down with only a blanket from his pack and wait it out. He hadn't slept either, not in that storm and he'd only gotten a few miles in before the mist.

He hadn't seen anything like it, the way it had come billowing through the trees like that. It wasn't natural. He'd figured that out right off the bat. Wind, rain, fog, condensation, it didn't matter; nothing on earth could move like that. Mist didn't just appear out of nothin' - it was impossible, even after that kind of a storm.

But even then he'd had enough sense to start running. He'd been only half a mile from his truck when the mist had enveloped him. And call it instinct, call it good sense or paranoia, but as the fog had billowed around him, shrouding the clearing in front of him with inscrutable white, he'd raised his crossbow.

Christ, Merle had been right. He should have never left Georgia.

It had been a stupid decision leaving. He'd made the mistake of thinking that if he put enough distance between where he was and where he'd been he'd somehow be able to find something better. But he'd been wrong. And that had been way before all this 'invasion from mars' bullshit.

Because instead of leavin' his problems behind, he'd just put mileage on the old and gained a whole set of new ones to boot. Instead of startin' over, he found himself working in a crappy, run down auto shop with a shifty boss and a handful of co-workers that basically _collected _felonies. And before he knew it he was back in the same rut, the same god forsaken shit town, the same _everything._

It was the same shit, just a different place. He should have known better. He should have just stayed-

But his attention was brought crashing back to the present when she suddenly stopped. Her expression morphed from terror, to surprise and then finally to hope faster than he could process as the happy jingle of a cellphone echoed through the mist. She nearly dropped her purse in her haste to dig it out, ripping it out of its case and flipping it open as the canned ragtime jazz cut off in mid chorus.

"…Victor? Victor, sweetie, I'm here! Are you safe? Your sister? – Where are you? – No, good. Stay there. No-_stay there_. I am coming – I'm close baby, I promise. Mommy is coming to get you both," she assured, looking torn between worry and relief as she took in the road ahead.

_The chicks were chirping from the nest. Afraid and alone… _

He closed his eyes as she cut off in mid word, the line abruptly going dead as she whispered incomprehensibly into the receiver before she held the phone aloft. Weaving this way and that, desperately searching for a signal as the phone beeped discouragingly - low battery.

This was the way the world worked. There were predators and then there was prey. It was how nature worked, how _species_ evolved. The weak and unlucky nourished the stronger and the predator lived to fight another day - in this case, _him_. It wasn't his place to change all that. Nature wasn't kind, it just _was_.

But if that were true, then why did he feel like a big old bag of _dicks _for even thinking about it?

That was when he felt it, the vibrations, the ominous, unending rolls of thunder that rose up from the ground like palsy. He watched first hand as fear slashed across her expression. Unable to help the small burst of admiration that trickled up his spine as she froze in place, the straps of her purse sliding down her arm as she rotated on her heel, trying to judge which direction the sounds were coming from before she decided what to do next.

_Smart bird._

The bushes off to his right shuddered. The drooping leaves trembled like ripples in a pond as he dug the fingers of his free hand deep into the dirt. He felt the barrel of his bolt-action Rugar dig into the curve of his spine as he hefted his crossbow, silently flicking off the safety as his body angled east.

_Something was coming…_

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I have already started work on the following chapter.

"_Human beings are the only animal that thinks they change who they are simply by moving to a different place. Birds migrate, but it's not quite the same thing."_ - Doug Coupland


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead". As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Two**_

There was no time to warn her, no time to sidle out of the fog and deal with shit diplomatically. He hit her running. Lunging out of the undergrowth just as she whipped around, blue eyes wide with terror as the ground beneath them trembled. One hand flew to her breast in a soundless scream as the thick, spindly legs of that massive scorpion creature loomed out of the mist – but by then they were airborne.

He took her down into the long grass, rolling them into a weed-choked ditch, grungy and slick with rainwater and muck, as he slapped a hand over her mouth and kept it there. He forced himself not to make a sound when her teeth sunk deep into the curve of his palm – the murky water lapping around her hair, turning the closely shorn strands into tiny auburn feathers as he pressed her into the mud.

She whimpered against his fingers, but he only tightened his hold. Face inches away from hers as he stared her right in the eyes, willing her to understand as the water underneath them trembled and the monstrous thing loomed out of the mist behind them.

_Fuck._

His palm was still tight across her mouth when her arms reached up and grasped his shoulders. Her tiny nails sunk right through the thick material of his leather vest as the monstrous shadow moved above them. But he barely felt it, all he could see was bloodshot white, watching through her eyes as the…_creature_, at least five stories tall – elephant-like and lined with tentacles reflected in her blown pupils.

The ground trembled. The sound was deafening, so loud that he could actually _feel _it. The weak daylight that streamed through the mist was suddenly cut off as the shadow overtook them. Off to the right as a large group of…_somethings _streaked through the brush only meters away – fleeing?

_Oh, if he were a betting man…_

He swallowed hard, feeling the thrum of her heart racing underneath his hands as their hips slotted together. Unable to separate himself from the sensation as her breasts jutted upwards, crushing against his vest as the hand that was propped up just over her head, _shielding_ her, sunk a few millimeters deeper into the muddy ditch.

_Breathe._

It wasn't until her palm gentled across the point where his neck met his shoulder that he realized her fingers had wandered. He nearly choked. Tension vibrated up his spine, muscles trembling, as he forced himself to remain motionless above her. Because it hadn't been accidental, it had been deliberate. It couldn't be written off as a knee-jerk reaction, or the instinctual response to fear that had been ingrained into humanity since the beginning. It had been _intimate_.

And despite it all, their eyes met – and in that moment_ something_ was exchanged. Gratitude, hope, fear, uncertainly, solace…he couldn't tell. Hell, when it all came down to it, it didn't matter because in that second, in that handful of heartbeats that were shared between them, despite the creatures and the muck and everything that had happened since he'd packed his shit into the back of his Ford and made tracks towards the state line, he felt remarkably, no, _ridiculously_, like he'd _finally_ come home.

It wasn't until the echoes had faded, thrumming out into distance, that he wrenched himself off her, clambering out of the ditch one handed as he held the crossbow aloft, the bolt pointed skyward as she pulled herself out the muck. He felt her, millimeters away and close at his back as he brought his fist up, motioning for her to stop - scanning the tree line for any sign of movement as a piping, unearthly cry echoed from the brush across the road.

_They weren't out of the woods yet._

He allowed her hand to linger on his arm as she regained her balance, tottering on her heels for a long second as she stumbled awkwardly out of the ditch. She put a measure of distance between them almost immediately, allowing him to breathe easy for the first time since he'd tackled her into the brush.

He didn't want her to get the wrong idea after all. This was a onetime thing, an _accident_. He didn't need another bleeding heart any more than he wanted another mouth to feed. He didn't need nobody, not _her_, not the military; he was better off on his own. The last thing he wanted was more baggage, pretty packaging or not.

He avoided her gaze as she turned, smoothing the wrinkled material of her shirt almost fastidiously as she tried her best to wring ditch water out of her coat. She looked more like a sodden bird trying to rearrange its feathers than anything else as she delicately picked a bit of evergreen from her short red hair. He tried not to look. Yet, his eyes still strayed, sticking around long enough to follow the delicate span of her throat as it dipped down to her collar bone, long enough to catch the metallic glint of her necklace as it reflected in the low light. The chain was tangled, half hidden in her collar, but despite it all, the shape was still visible. It was a four leaf clover.

_Ironic._

Her voice was light, airy and naturally melodic when she finally spoke. "Thank you," she managed, still trying to catch her breath as the distant footfalls of the enormous creature echoed through the mist – angling north, towards the state line, by his best guess.

"You saved me…" she ventured, trailing off in a way that made the words sound more like a question than a statement. Shaking her head almost wonderingly, she tried to recapture his gaze. But he avoided it, unclipping his canteen from the side of his pack and taking long swig – letting the moment grow uncomfortable and stilted before he finally offered it to her.

She drank greedily, like she hadn't seen hide or tail of water in _days_.

He made a rude sound before he answered, his knee joints cracking as he straightened. "Don't get any ideas, lady," he grunted, adjusting the straps of his backpack, "we were hemmed in. The only way out was to let them duke it out or distract them – at least for a little while," he finished, skirting around the issue as best he could as he tried to figure out his next move. The truth was he still wasn't sure why he'd done it. Why he'd saved her. And personally, he didn't want to examine it too closely either.

_Stupid bird._

"You are the first person I've seen since dawn," she murmured. "The first one that stopped anyway," she amended, her expression a confusing mix of anger and grief as she scrubbed her face with her hands.

"Where are you headed?" He asked as he stowed the canteen back in his pack, figuring it was only fair if the questions came from both sides.

Her eyes were twin pinpricks of sky blue, fever bright in the surrounding white as she swallowed hard. Her hands trembled at her sides before she stuffed them in her pockets, purse swinging at her side as she finally looked up. Her cheeks reddened when she noticed his scrutiny.

"Home – just off of Grouse road and Harrier" she clarified, indicating off in the direction she'd been headed, right into five square miles of nests – hunting grounds. She'd never make it. After all, he barely had, and he was _him._

"Look lady, take my advice. You don't want to go that way," he snorted, kicking a rock clear across the black top as her spine stiffened from stem to stern like a disgruntled tom-cat.

"But my kids," she insisted. "I have to get home to my kids," she trilled, her voice breaking uncomfortably near the end as exhaustion and frustration visibly took its toll. And yet, even he could tell that it more than that, more than simply frustration and fear. Because there was something about the way she said it that made him wonder just how long she'd been telling herself that.

"So? Go a different way," he replied, not seeing the issue. Bridgton was an old logging town; there were hundreds of dirt roads cut through the brush, ringing through the old growth like zig-zags down a mountain side. It shouldn't be too hard for her to find another way, even for a city-slicker.

"There _isn't_ another way," she answered, unconsciously taking a cautious step forward towards home as she pursed her lips - impatient but uncertain.

"Sure there is. You live on the lakefront, right?" He asked, hefting his pack up until it was hanging more comfortably across the span of his shoulders. His sweaty shirt itched across the small of his back – a mess of dirt streaks and blood splattered freckles as the hairs on his forearms prickled in the late afternoon breeze.

"I just moved here last week," she said, looking uncomfortable and almost embarrassed as she shifted uncertainly. "I don't know the area at all; it took me this long to make it from town. I was at the grocery store when it happened. Everyone was- but I left, my kids are alone. I made it to the parking lot, but I couldn't start my car, the motor flooded and-" she caught his look and trailed off, looking mildly apologetic as she sent him a trembling half smile.

"Sorry. I talk when I'm nervous," she explained, her expression turning sheepish as she tucked the straps of her purse more securely over her shoulder.

He just grunted, checking the tension on his crossbow as he directed his gaze north, squinting into the mist. Because really, what the hell was he supposed to say to all that?

"Where are you headed?" She asked after a moment, breaking the silence gently, almost as if she was afraid of broaching the matter entirely as she gestured toward his pack and the forested clearing he'd come from.

"Away." He grunted, feeling no need to elaborate as discomfort flittered across her expression – the emotion skittish and uncertain as she cocked her head, much like the way a magpie examines a smear of road kill on the side of the blacktop.

She wavered when he didn't continue, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other as the moment grew stale. But he didn't say a word. He just stared right back at her. _He was on to her._

"My name is Carol by the way," she finally offered, extending the name like a peace offering - like it was something casual rather than an underhanded attempt to gain his sympathy. Because really, rough patch or not, he still had his fucking pride thank you _very_ much. He wasn't stupid.

"I_ didn't_ ask," he snapped, feeling irritable and just shy of vindictive as he watched her face fall. Telling himself he didn't feel like all kinds of an asshole as an apology rose up in his throat like bile. He held it back, but just barely.

His mother had had a bird once, a beady little terror of a thing that did nothing but chirp off key and bobble-step around its water dish like a three year old on a sugar high. His mother had adored it whereas he'd secretly wanted to strangle the stupid thing. She said having him reminded her of summer, and when push came to shove, his momma had gotten her way.

The thing had been damn near indestructible. He didn't know how it'd lasted as long as it did, but it had. It had survived Merle, him, the cats, empty water dishes, and lazy days where his mama forgot to take the blanket off the cage until dinner the next day.

Once, while he was cleaning the cage, it'd gotten loose. It had fluttered around the house for hours in a storm of feathers and old bird seed, forcing them to dodge streaks of flying shit as it pinged off the walls like a bat out of hell. It had never been out of its cage before, and the stupid thing had no idea what to do with itself other than the fact that it was out._ Free_. For the first time in its life the sky really _was_ the limit.

The only thing was, like he'd said, the little shit was dumber than a pile of rocks. It_ hit_ walls instead of perching and squawked bloody murder whether you were chasing after it or ignoring it. It had all the instinct to survive in the wild, but none of the smarts, none of the practice. And if there_ weren't_ enough similarities between that god damned bird and this _woman_, then it was worth pointing out that they were both shaping up to be _royal _pains in his ass.

He knew what she wanted. It was all there, painted across her face like one of those billboards on the Vegas strip. He decided to cut her off at the pass.

"I don't take in strays. And I ain't interested in your problems, lady. I've got my own to worry about," he gritted, turning off to the side and spitting up a mouthful of grit as he gnawed on the inside of his cheek.

"It seems like we have the same problem," she countered, tone purposeful yet gentle as she crossed her hands over her chest, fixing him with a clinical, but thoughtful expression that would have probably had a lesser man running for the hills.

But he stood his ground. She was smart, pragmatic but moral. In short, she was a mother - circling the nest, _searching_, fierce when needed but nurturing by nature. He recalled the tinny little voice on the other end of the phone. She'd heard her chick's cries; she would stop at nothing to get back to them. She'd lay it all on the line, her life, his,_ especially_ his. Oh, she'd feel bad about it later, but like it or not, eventually his sacrifice would be seen as a necessarily evil in her mind, something worth a few months of restless nights, if any at all.

He was a stranger, _expendable_.

He made the mistake of looking up and found that her eyes were kind. He cursed internally.

"If we could just -" She began, one hand rising placatingly as she tried to recapture his gaze.

But he cut her off before she could get there, lips curling into an ugly look as somewhere in the distance as trumpeting roar echoed in the mist, "_we?_ Lady, there ain't no _we_," He practically snarled, not even noticing that he'd advanced on her until she flinched backwards.

But she talked right over him, the words spilling out of her mouth like she hadn't even heard him. Her expression was drawn and tight around the eyes as she caught his gaze and held it – an off-centre contradiction of fear and strength.

"My neighbor has a truck. I know where the keys are."

"There are abandoned cars all over the place," he pointed out, "you ain't lookin' at no saint here lady, I can have one of them hot-wired in under a minute," exaggerating a little. He wanted to see her hand first. The bird was keeping something back, a trump card. He wanted to know what it was.

"Earlier, there was a van, a bunch of people were heading west - survivors. They stopped but they wouldn't take me home, I heard them talking about a safe zone. Something the military has set up. A safe place – secure, where there is food, water, first aid. If we get to my place we can-" She replied.

He laughed. But it was bitter sound. "And if I do? Then what? What's stopping me from just taking the truck and leaving? Hell, what is–" he shook his head, cutting himself off as the words grew bitter in his mouth.

"Even if you do, getting to my kids is the most important thing in the world to me right now, if we get there and that is how you feel, well, you do what you have to do," she said softly. Her expression was not quite pleading, no she was too proud for that, more _yearning_ than anything.

"I don't owe you nothin'..." He muttered, feeling as though it was important to remind her of that despite the fact that he was rapidly tipping the scales, stumbling into the grey as all the lines he'd told himself he'd draw when he'd rolled them into that ditch grew hazy and uncertain.

_Damnit._

"Right now sticking together is in _both_ our best interests." She pointed out, twisting the straps of her purse between her hands as something scuttled through the underbrush to the right, skimming the tree line with worrisome boldness as he followed the sound, his crossbow raised.

_They needed to move._

He used the moment to think, clearing his head-space as he followed the creature through the stripped huckleberry bushes that lined the side of the road. In a way she was right, access to a gassed up vehicle he didn't have to waste time tryin' to hot-wire was appealing – the same went for this safe zone, if it even existed in the first place.

The bird was sharp. He'd give her that – shrewd, but sharp.

"Lady, you don't know me," he sighed, feeling tired in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion as any lingering resistance filtered through him like water from a sieve.

_Why did he have to be responsible for this, for her? Where the hell was it written? He knew what Merle would have said, hell, he knew what Merle would have likely done too if given half the chance. But he wasn't Merle. …And maybe that was the point._

"No, I don't. But you're not afraid. I was at a grocery store when all this happened. There were dozens of people and not one helped me. They let me walk right out the front door – knowing what would happen. You've done more for me right here than anyone else has done since this whole mess started," she replied, her expression turning resentful and haunted as her eyes turned distant.

"…That and I have faith," she added after a moment. The words were soft, low, almost as if she was hoping that he wouldn't hear as her fingers, long and delicate, carded through her short auburn hair.

He snorted. "Well let me know how that whole fate thing works out for you," he muttered gesturing off into the mist as something unimaginably massive trumpeted in the distance. "Because I can guarantee you that faith alone won't get you _ten feet _down that road," he snapped.

"It's gotten me this far," she shot back, her cheeks tinged with red as she threw his words right back at him with all the grace of a spirited eight year old sticking their tongue out behind the teacher's back.

The silence was awkward.

But she refused to look away.

Finally he ducked his head, his limbs angry and restless as he shifted away from her. Feeling caged and cornered by her, this…_bird_ of all things. _Christ, he was losing his touch._

"Near as I can tell, the little ones, the bugs, are attracted to light. Maybe even movement. So, if you even so much as make_ peep_ when we get cornered, I'm gone." He hissed, cursing himself and his bleeding heart as she nodded. She paused, one hand on her breast, looking him right in the eye as her expression turned warm, _relieved - _making to speak as something in her gaze softened.

_She didn't want to be alone._

"Oh, and mister, call me 'lady' one more time and this _lady_ will be forced to do something very _unladylike_, got it?" She added, throwing the words over her shoulder with all the temerity of a solider igniting _napalm_ as he watched her walk away, her full hips swaying like a pendulum as she started down the road.

_Feisty._

He stared, and while he wasn't sure why, the hint of a grin threatened to curl across his lips. "Yes ma'am," he retorted, his Georgian accent lingering just long enough to make her aware of the sarcasm before he looked away, tightening the straps on his pack and checking the safety on his crossbow before he motioned her to lead the way.

The glare he got in return was_ beyond_ satisfying.

"It's this way," she snapped, her heels clicking across the pavement off to his left as he shook his head and followed her into the white.

Because really, what else was he supposed to do?

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Thank you so much for all your kind reviews thus far, I am so pleased you are all enjoying. Chapter three should be up in a week, maybe less!

_"Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark."_ - Rabindranath Tagore


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead." As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Three**_

She broke his first rule ten minutes in, matching his strides as they left the road and began picking their way through the brush. He gave the nests a wide berth, deliberately lengthening their trek as he angled them in a more northerly direction – figuring they could swing back once they were outside of the creature's hunting grounds. He wasn't taking any chances.

"Did you lose anyone?" She asked, breaking the silence that had descended between them since they'd left the road. He cocked his head, trying to gauge her sincerity. But if he was looking for a lie, he didn't get one. She reeked of honesty.

"Ain't got no one to lose, not here anyway," he grunted, squinting into the fog as the forest around them grew thicker. The woods around them were choked with old growth trees, most had ancient, wobbly x's painted across their trunks. _Shame._

He wondered off-handedly if the logging company would ever come to collect, especially now. Somehow, he didn't think so. The government would probably just firebomb the lot: Bridgton, the military base, even the surrounding counties just to make sure. Just like they did in remote villages in the ass-end of the world whenever there was an outbreak of something particularly nasty. And whether it was a government cover up or just operational prudence, he could certainly understand it.

Some things had no business seeing the light of day.

"Georgia, right?" She asked, ducking her head a bit when he shot her a look. "The accent is pretty distinct," she explained, sending him a small smile as the back of his neck burned on reflex.

_Christ._

"I doubt all this has spread that far," she offered after a moment, surprising him with her sincerity as she tried to set his mind at ease - trying to make _him _feel better as she ran her hand across the trunk of a wide-set oak.

Honestly, she shouldn't have bothered.

"Won't much matter if it does," he snorted, gesturing off into the white. "Merle is the kind of bastard that would _enjoy _shit like this. He'd be the last one standing too - tough as shit, my older brother," he grunted, swinging under a low-lying branch as they entered a small, logged out clearing.

"Is that who you left behind? To come here?" She asked, her tone gentle but strangely knowing as she tried to navigate around a fallen tree, heels slipping in the mud as she vaulted over it, scrambling awkwardly across the slippery moss as her stupid shoes gained her little traction.

He baulked, angry. Rage sizzled across his vision at the implication. Partly cause it was none of her god-damned business and partly because it was true. Merle had burned those bridges a long time ago. Hell, he'd all but pushed him out the front door. Not in so many words of course, but he'd made it clear that he wasn't going to change - even for him, no, _especially_ not for him.

He'd done his part, he'd _tried_. He'd tried to be the good, loyal little brother, following in Merle's footsteps as it were - talkin' like him, actin' like him, trying to be _just _like him. But then Merle had gone away, to juvy. And then the police had come, the government, perm-pressed social workers with tired smiles that had sat him down and checked off boxes on fancy legers - looking uncomfortable and nervous as his father had glared at them from the kitchen, drinking whiskey out of a coffee mug at ten in the morning. They'd spouted words like rehab and addiction, broken bones and pending litigations. And suddenly he realized he didn't want to be just like Merle after all.

But when Merle had gotten out of juvy he'd come back _worse_, not better. And eventually he realized that if he didn't want to_ become _Merle he was going to have to leave. Merle didn't want to be saved. It had taken decades to make the distinction, to realize that the Merle who had never hesitated to knock heads together for the sake of his little brother, hadn't survived past that first stint in prison. After all, you couldn't save someone who didn't want to believe they needed it – or deserved it for that matter.

He shook his head, banishing the memories back into the lock-box they'd broken out from - out of sight, out of mind. But she was still waiting for an answer.

A retort rose to his lips, something about them having leaving people behind in common. He bit down the urge to taunt her with shit she couldn't change. Choices and decisions she _could've_ made but hadn't. But he swallowed them. She didn't need that.

_She didn't know. After all, how could she?_

They remained silent for some time. There was no need to talk. The forest was doing enough of that for them. The canopy above was alive with strange sounds and the surrounding woods echoed with unnatural footfalls. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, hackles rising like a lone wolf caught out in the open, snarling as another predator, a _better _predator, stalked them through the evergreens.

The air felt electric - charged, but uncertain. The food chain had been flipped on its head and the world was scrambling to keep up. The rules had changed. The_ world_ had changed. The only question was how long it was going to last.

And deep down, despite the mask, despite the calm facade that fit over him like a second skin, the change rankled him, because it wasn't right. This, whatever_ this_ was, had changed the rules. The natural order was out of whack, predator? Prey? It didn't matter. Even the birds were silent. Like an ostrich that had buried its head in the sand, the animals of Bridgton, Maine had hunkered down - waiting it out.

For the first time in his life the forest was a mystery to him.

He didn't _trust_ it.

And perhaps that was worst thing about it.

He was distracted from his thoughts when she stumbled into him. Catching one of her thin little heels on a snarl of roots and pitching forward. Wings fluttering, wind-milling in the air for a few long seconds as he lurched backwards, whirling instinctively as he caught her in mid-fall.

"Sorry," she murmured, breathless from the near miss as he helped her stand, trying not to notice that she smelled like old sweat and crushed lavender as her fingers curled around the cut off sleeves of his leather vest - tugging and overly familiar_._

A muscle twitched in his jaw - straining under the skin as her nails rasped down his forearm. _Jesus shit._

"You ain't gonna get far with those shoes," he finally grunted, throwing the words over his shoulder as he started walking, desperate to put some distance between them.

"I'll be fine," she insisted, struggling a bit as she crunched unsteadily across an uneven stretch of gravel.

"Fine my ass. You're going to either get us killed or break your fucking ankles. And if you think I'm carrying your ass all the way home you've got another thing com'in," he grated, frowning as he watched her little brown heels wobble alarmingly, threatening to topple over every other step as she used her hands to steady herself.

For moment she just stared, glaring daggers at him for a few long seconds before her shoulders started to shake. Trying and ultimately failing to suppress a few undignified snorts before she threw back her head and laughed – the sound tinkling and melodic as it trilled out into the silence.

He might have smiled back.

It wasn't long before the brush started thinning. She sent him a questioning look but he simply waved it off. Like he'd said before, Bridgton was an old logging town; there were roads, dirt or otherwise all over the place. In this case, the more they angled towards the lakefront the more they would have to cross over some of the town's more well-used roads. The lakefront was prime real estate – he'd been in the area long enough to notice that they were trying to spruce up the town's image, aiming to market the area as a vacation hot-spot or something. According to his boss there had been a lot of focus on roadwork the past few summers – enough to both piss off the locals and bring in just enough new business that they weren't scandalized enough to take their hissy fit up to City Hall.

Either way, he didn't plan on them walkin' the whole way. He hadn't slept in days and she was five minutes away from going barefoot.

He jumped the ditch, signalling for her to wait on the other side as he scouted ahead. The faded blacktop was littered with abandoned cars. It stunk of panic and something else, something unfamiliar as he neared the first car, seeing the body of it, clean and apparently untouched as it loomed out of the mist.

His crossbow was up, index finger tight on the trigger as he approached. The driver's side door was wide open but the engine still running. He ducked behind it, coming around it from the opposite side as he peered through the passenger window.

_Jesus fuck!_

He jolted backwards, lips twisting harshly as what he saw sent bile surging up the back of his throat. He coughed, the smell almost unbearable as the scent of exposed stomach acids and fresh shit issued from the back of the sedan. He stumbled backwards, eyes fast on the tree line as his hip scored against the open gas tank. Its trunk was roped shut and stuffed with luggage, almost as if whoever had owned it had decided to make a break for it but failed.

He spat. Trying to rid himself of the smell that seemed to permeate the very air as he moved away, heading back the way he'd come without even so much as a backward glance.

He didn't search any farther than that. He just offered her his hand as she jumped the ditch and followed close at his heels. He shook his head when she motioned hopefully towards the black sedan, the motor still purring audibly, despite the encroaching mist as they crossed the road and headed back into the brush.

Maybe they'd be luckier next time.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Eee! Guys, thank you for the awesome response so far, I adore all of you, I am working on the fourth chapter as we speak! Stay tuned.

_"In order to see birds it is necessary to become part of the silence."_ - Robert Lynd


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead". As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Four**_

"You still haven't told me your name," she reminded him, her tone hopeful but irritated as she picked her way through the undergrowth. Hopping delicately, she shook off a clump of prickles and muttered as she twitched her skirt back around and wavered unsteadily. She looked out of place, like a raven trying to impress a mate in the middle of a feeding frenzy.

It would have been hilarious, if things weren't so god damned fucked up.

He was about to reply when they were interrupted, freezing in place as a piercing scream rose in the distance. It was close. _Too close_. He hit the dirt, feeling her follow suit as they crouched behind a fallen log.

"…What is it?" she whispered, their fingers in danger of tangling together as she huddled close.

"Nothing good," he hissed, forgetting to tell her to shut it as the screams rose up again – masculine and high with terror, not half a mile straight ahead. He listened, cocking his head as he strained to hear. The poor bastard was being hunted.

He couldn't tell by what, but he could guess.

"Shouldn't we help them?" she asked, her voice uncertain as she peered above the fallen log. She was frowning, so close that he could feel her breath on his face, warm and stale as her expressive eyes stared off in the direction of the shouts.

_The bird was learning. Good._

He listened, trying to block out the now hysterical edge to the man's yells as they echoed through the mist, brutal and terrified as he slowly shook his head. They wouldn't get there in time. The man was already dead; he just didn't know it yet.

"Only if you want to join him," he replied, tone bordering on unkind as he unfolded himself from his crouch – wiping dirty hands across equally filthy jeans as he stepped over the rotting trunk, angling away from the screams, as a different voice suddenly echoed through the mist. This time feminine and shrill as the sound of a shotgun blast filtered through the forest canopy, echoing like a death knell.

She paused before she followed; looking as though she was going to say something but thought better of it. She didn't say anything when, a few moments later, the panicked screams suddenly broke off, devolving into an agonized cry, then_ silence_.

_The weak and the unlucky fed the strong. That was the way the world worked. _

The bird didn't say much after that.

They swung east for a few miles, well out of the way of whatever might still be lingering in the area before he angled back towards the lakefront. It wouldn't be long now. They might even make it before dark – if they were lucky. Truth be told, he didn't want to be caught out in the dark – not with what he'd seen.

They crossed through the forest and onto another deserted stretch of blacktop half a mile later. It was an intersection; barely, host to a light and a four way stop. Everything you'd expect from a sleepy little logging town. Trash littered the road, remnants from someone's garbage can, probably wreckage from the storm. But other than that the road was deserted – no cars, no sign of life whatsoever.

He'd just motioned for her to follow when the metal trash can suddenly popped, the cheap metal pinging through the silence like a gun shot. He flinched, finger tight on the trigger of his bow when the can gave another threatening wriggle. He took a step forward but paused when he heard the bird shift, her heels rasping across the faded blacktop just a few feet behind him as an unvoiced question died in her throat.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, tongue flirting with the taste of iron as the muscles in his arms tensed, over-prepared and on-edge.

He nearly had a god damned heart attack when – not half a second later - a dog, an overfed Heinz-57 style mutt suddenly darted out of the overturned can. He nearly toppled over, instinctively scrambling backwards until his eyes and his brain finally decided to work together - cursing himself for getting distracted as the bird wisely kept her distance.

The dog paused on the side of the road, leash trailing. It looked back at them consideringly as the garbage can rocked back and forth behind it. It was an odd looking thing, a Shepard maybe – with one ear sticking straight up, and the other, reddish-brown and floppy pointing straight down. It was something that only served to make it look perpetually surprised as it stared at them distrustfully.

They stared right back.

There was a pair of sandals lying in the middle of the intersection, spaced out almost perfectly, almost as if the person had run right out of them. They were too small to be an adult's – perhaps a child's. The bird made a wounded sound in the back of her throat – _definitely_ a child's.

The dog's hackles went up as they made to cross. The fur around its neck ruffled in warning as its tail remained firmly between its legs, dappled belly quivering as it froze in place, its dark eyes following their progress as they gave the frightened animal its space.

It was only when he took a second look that he realized the leash that trailed behind it was streaked with red. Almost as if its owner had been snatched up in mid-run, their grip automatically locking, slicking the lead in an uneven layer of red seconds before the grip went slack and they were yanked upwards, disappearing into the mist as the dog in question bolted.

They shared a look but said nothing.

They left the dog undisturbed as they crossed the road and jumped the ditch, disappearing into the trees as the pert sound of trimmed canine claws clicked hesitantly across the blacktop, watching them go until even that was swallowed by the quiet.

They only stopped for a breather when he got tired of listening to her stomach grumble. The sound was grating, a hollow burble of sloshing fluids and angry echoes. But she was a stubborn thing. Even when he sat down on the edge of a small roadside clearing and pulled out a bag of jerky, she didn't outright ask.

He could tell as clear as day what she wanted. Hell, she was practically _salivating_, her pretty little throat working minutely as her gaze fastened on the bag. She was exhausted and hungry – she probably hadn't had anything to eat since this entire mess had started.

He was about to hand it over when he hesitated. The thin plastic rustling between his fingers as a particularly loud rumble issued from the log across from him. She blushed – almost fidgeting now.

Her reluctance to just straight up ask intrigued him. Was it pride? Distrust? Or was it simply impatience? Wanting to get home – back to her chicks - as soon as possible? Perhaps it was even all three.

_Smart bird._

It was a near thing when he tossed her the bag of jerky. Part of him was just sadistic enough to wonder how long it would take before she caved in and the other just wanting the moment over and done with. They had a lot ground to cover and not enough daylight to do it in.

"What kind is it?" She asked, speaking around her first bite as she gnawed on the smoked venison.

"Does it matter?" He countered, testing the edge of his buck knife with his thumb before he reached into a side pocket and pulled out his sharping block.

And apparently it didn't, because she tore into the snack with relish. Her eyes momentarily closed, all but _purring_ in satisfied bliss as she forced herself to swallow, gulping awkwardly as she tried to eat as fast as possible. Her lips were slick with saliva as she tore off another piece, watching with undisguised curiosity as the blade rasped across the block in long, balanced strokes.

"What were you doing out anyway? Taking a day trip the morning after a storm like that ain't exactly my idea of a good time," he finally questioned, not exactly sure why he'd asked in the first place as he listened to her tear into the jerky. The sound was barely audible above the cool rasp of flint meeting carbonized metal as he sharpened the very tip of the blade - careful and practiced as she fiddled with her shirt.

The corners of her lips quirked upwards, like he'd said something funny as she took a small sip of water before answering.

"Ice, mainly. I wanted to pack the freezer so the meat wouldn't spoil," she replied, shaking her head slightly as her gaze went distant. "Sounds pretty stupid now…"

"And what? Your husband's outta town?" He asked, not exactly sure he wanted to know as his gaze automatically flicked towards her ring finger - testing the tension wires on his bow as he waited. Caught between cussing himself out and frowning when all he could make out was a tan line.

"…Recently divorced," she replied crisply. The expression on her face made him do a double take. Her tone was clipped and evasive for the first time since he'd set eyes on her – body language making it clear that she didn't want to discuss it.

_He'd hit a nerve._

And it was probably exactly because of that that it only made him want to dig for more. He wanted to pick her apart piece by piece until he had the vulnerable heart of her in his hands. He wanted her raw and still bleeding as he held the tiny thing up to the light, cradled in his calloused hands like some sort of a trophy as the entire world howled - mourning the loss.

She startled him out of his thoughts as she handed him the bag of jerky. Half full. Considerate.

"Aren't you having any?" She questioned changing the subject with such smoothness that he didn't even have time to question the sincerity of the guilt and concern that filtered across her face in jarring free-form as he folded the bag and started to put it away.

"Ain't hungry," he returned, gently pinching the zip closed before he tucked it back into his pack – pointedly ignoring the dull throb of hunger in favor of taking a careful sip from his canteen.

It was a lie. And this time they both knew it.

It was nearing twilight by the time they came across another road – the muted sunset bathing the mist in a swirl of pale yellows and pinks. It might have even been beautiful if it hadn't been so god damned terrifying. Tension itched between his shoulders as he looked to the horizon, trying to judge how much daylight they had left. They needed to find shelter and fast; otherwise they wouldn't survive the night - not both of them at any rate.

"I recognize this! It's the last intersection before the lakeshore!" She suddenly exclaimed, perking up with excited familiarity as she jumped the ditch in front of him – ignoring him completely as he hurried to follow. Vaguely listening to her ramble on about how it couldn't be long now as he followed more cautiously in her wake.

The road ahead was surprisingly clear. There was nothing to indicate that anything other than the storm had passed through here. No cars, no people, no…_whatever _they were. In fact the only thing of note was an uprooted stop sign that had been propped up against a tree beside the intersection, half buried in muck on the edge of the road.

He weighed the odds. He wasn't exactly comfortable being out in the open. But on the other hand, they might be able to cover more ground if they stayed on the road for a while. The road looked safe enough, at least for now.

The traffic light hanging over the intersection seemed strangely still, at odds with the light breeze that fanned through the trees on either side of them. The power was still out. How long had it been now, forty-eight hours? Seventy-two? Where the hell was FEMA? The military? Hell, he'd take the fuckin' Red Cross from Anchorage, Alaska right about now.

_Where was everyone?_

"Oh, it was like that yesterday morning," she assured, catching his gaze as he examined the mangled stop sign, thumbing the edges curiously as the warped metal scored across his calloused palms. "I passed it on the way in. The storm must have done it," she added, leaning up against an electrical pole as she toed off one of her shoes and rubbed her sore heels.

The skin was blood-red and irritated even from the distance as she winced, fingers passing over a particularly sore spot before she allowed her hands to move on. Trickling up the lean length of her calf in soothing, rhythmic motions that had him relaxing on reflex. Her muscles trembled under her hands, colt-like and oddly graceful as she remained focused on her task. Her skin was pale but freckled, littered with the occasional bruise or scrape that gradually pinkened under her ministrations.

It was oddly cathartic, watching her. It reminded him of something, something elusive. Something he couldn't quite place as her long, tapering fingers bunched and released. Something in his chest slackened, muscles relaxing, seemingly for the first time in decades as a low hum of sound rose up from her throat.

_Christ._

He didn't know how long they stayed like that. How long he let the moment rest before he finally shook himself out of his own head. He cleared his throat and squinted into the mist, forcing himself to focus as he eyed the tree-line, making sure they were still alone before he turned back to face her.

"Co'mon," he finally grunted, tearing his gaze away as she straightened, all long, lithe lines and gently flared hips out of the corner of his eye that arched up as she stretched.

He didn't say anything when she made a point of walking at his side. Shoulder to shoulder as they disappeared into the mist.

He wouldn't have known what to say anyway.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I am having quite a lot of fun with this; I am thrilled you are all enjoying! The next chapter should be up soon!

_"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly."_ - Langston Hughes


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead". As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Five**_

They made it about a mile down the road before they saw it, an awkward, twisted hulk of a car that was riding the median between the side of the road and the tree line. It was barely level, its tires blown and its frame crumpled like a handful of matchsticks.

Hell, it was facing the _wrong_ way on the_ wrong_ side of the road, almost as if something impossibly large had slapped it clear across the blacktop.

Near as he could tell, it had probably been some sort of SUV – the kind that families who actively scorn minivans tend to snap up on red tag sales around Labor Day. But even then, considering the state of it, that guess was generous at best.

He stalled. Something wasn't right. It wasn't the how or the what that bothered him, but _when_, because something that could do _that _had to be big. If it had been here recently they should have heard it, even through the mist.

Something was off - _wrong_. He just didn't know what.

But the bird, apparently, had no such qualms. In fact, impatience streamed out of her like blood from an open wound. She didn't understand. Not the situation nor its complexities and she likely didn't want to, either. She was thinking with her heart, not her gut. He understood it – what she wanted, but he wasn't taking any chances. They had no way of knowing if one of those things was still in the area, he needed to scout ahead, to make sure it was safe before they continued.

After all, he didn't reckon on running into whatever had done _that _anytime soon.

He held up a hand when she started to walk around him, fingers accidentally skimming across the arch of her hip as she slowed. The wreck was barely visible through the mist, settled in a sea of broken glass and cracked pavement as his gaze was drawn back towards the vehicle itself. Even from the distance it was apparent that the roof had been sheered clean off, the supporting metal slates jagged and exposed as they surged up into the sky like a company of mismatched spears.

A light wind rippled through the tree line, momentarily thinning the mist ahead. His spine stiffened as a barely discernible lump in the front seat slowly came into view. He squinted, trying to make it out. Was that a-

He was so busy taking it in that he didn't notice she was suddenly up and moving before it was too late. He probably wouldn't have been able to stop her anyway; there was recognition in her steps. Set alight by that same brand of hope that rises in your chest when you find a friend in the middle of a hurricane. On one hand, you have your friend, but on the other, you're still fucked.

She was surprisingly quick on her feet when she wanted to be, with her heels click-clacking across the uneven blacktop as he cursed and hurried after her. He caught a hold of her shoulder a few feet away from the crumpled vehicle, but forgot to take her to task for barging ahead of him when he caught sight of them.

She ducked out from under his hand, shaking him off as a small cry of dismay slipped from her lips as she stumbled into the side of the twisted wreck. Her fingers skittered away from the bloody hand print that was splayed across the broken glass – half dried across the driver's side window.

But she stilled before she reached the handle.

And when he got closer, he understood why. The roof had been peeled clear off, along with part of the frame. Except, in some weird twist of fate, one of the supporting beams that had been connected to the roof had been folded in half, slicing right through the woman, dead in the passenger seat, and the child still strapped into his car seat behind her.

The bird breathed sharply through her nose, almost as if she was fighting off the urge to be sick.

There was no sign of the driver save for a snapped seat belt and large pool of red that had dried into the vinyl - sloppy and smudged as if the person had been holding on to the dash before they were ripped away.

"Don't look." He murmured, knowing it was about as comforting as it was useless as he made a circuit around the vehicle – swiftly taking in the damage. The metal spike had pierced right through the back seat as well, skewering both of them through the chest as it went. They'd been dead on impact, if he was any judge. Probably - _hopefully_.

_Fuck._

The woman in the front seat was a graceful thing, splayed out in a fit of rounded curves and tangled curls. She was a broken puppet that had been pinned in place – her strings were tangled, knotted and broken. And the child, a boy, barely out of diapers, was slumped over in his car seat behind her. His chubby fingers limp around the edges of a worn, yellow blanket.

"You know 'em?" He asked, the words coming out more like a statement then a question as she slumped against the driver's side door, expression partially hidden behind her sleeves as she wiped at her face. Her cheeks were bloodless and pale as her fingers trembled.

"They lived up the road," she began, her voice unsteady, pained, as she looked off into the mist. "The Thompson's, they came over when we moved in. They brought us lasagne, a welcome to the neighborhood kind of gift, you know? – I still have the pan. I was going to return it yesterday," she breathed, fingers smoothing through her hair like the very action could bring back the levity she'd lost.

"They were nice, _real_. He was a software…something. And she was a teacher, tw-twin boys…" she continued, trailing off near the end as her gaze lingered on the backseat. He followed suit, in spite himself - swallowing a surge of bile when he realized that, just like the father, there was no sign of the other boy - just a bloody seat back and open sky.

_Christ._

He spat on the ground, restless. The air smelled of blood and piss, of old death and ripped up sod. There was nothing for them here. He curled his shoulders inward, protective. He caught her eye as she straightened, spine stiff against the side of the mangled car as dusk swirled around them.

They had to move.

"We're losin' light," he uttered, his voice coming out surprisingly gentle as he met her gaze, looking anywhere but at the slumped bodies behind her as she finally nodded. A single tear trickled down her cheek before she dashed it away, drawing herself up as she walked back the way she'd came. She was a steady presence at his side as her shoulder rubbed up against his, comforting and warm as he ducked his head, crossbow resting against his forearm as he_ let_ her.

And for one of the few times in his life, the fluttering weight of someone else's hand brushing against his was okay.

They were about to turn away when there was a cough - liquidy and cloying as the puppet in the front seat suddenly breathed.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Sorry about the shorter chapter this time around, I reached a natural pause and figured it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good cliff-hanger! Hee!

_"I would rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach 10,000 stars how not to dance."_ – E.E. Cummings


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead." As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Six**_

The bird didn't miss a beat. She was up and struggling with the door before he could even so much as blink – hope trumping logic as she wrestled with the handle on the driver's side. The metal was warped and not cooperating as she tried to reach between the shards of shattered glass to open it from the inside.

"Help me!" She cried, her voice high and strained like somehow his attention would mean the difference between life and death - like she actually thought the woman could be saved. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it; either way, he told himself he didn't care.

It was a lie, but it was better than getting invested. He knew that from experience.

A frustrated sound issued from the back of her throat as she yanked on the handle - already making far too much noise as the ruined metal screeched, the jagged ends grating as she turned around and caught his gaze. If she didn't shut up she was going to-

"Please?"

_For fuck's sake._

He shook his head, but approached the side of the SUV anyway, knowing well enough what they'd find when they got inside. The woman was beyond their help. That die had already been cast.

He approached the passenger's side cautiously, mindful of the debris – all shattered glass and bloody smears as he caught the bird's eye above the sheared off roof.

"What's her name?" He mouthed. But she just shook her head, helpless, as guilt and horror flirted with the worried downturn of her lips as she tried to open the driver's side door. The warped metal _screeched_, pinging dully into the quiet before he signaled her to leave it. Whatever had done this might still be around.

He tested the handle before he made to open it, careful to make sure the injured woman wasn't banking too much of her weight against it before he eased it open. The click was loud in the surrounding quiet, jarring, but the woman inside barely reacted.

It was the smell that hit him first. The sharp, stale musk of old blood and body fluids - all mixed together with pine scented air freshener that actually turned his stomach. The woman's hair was red. The pale blond strands had been stained a muted crimson across her scalp, standing out in off-centered streaks. But he would have bet a month's pay it _wasn't _her own. It was too high and the angle was all wrong. His eyes flicked towards the back seat on reflex.

He didn't gag, but it was a near thing.

Her eyes were unfocused, sightless – filmed with new death and dried salt tracks that had plastered her lashes against her skin. He doubted she'd seen anything out of them for hours. Her body was shutting down, dying - protecting all the vital functions until the bitter end. It was poetic, in a morbid sort of way. It was a swan song – a near perfect design.

But in her case it was just downright cruel. She was already dead; she just hadn't stopped breathing yet.

The woman swallowed thickly, hissing out blood spatter as pink froth bubbled up from her ruined lungs. Her head tipped minutely in his direction as his fingers found her pulse point, gentling her chilled skin as she struggled to bring him into focus. Her mouth was knocked loose, slack as she struggled to breathe. The silence that seeped out between them was stale and uncomfortable.

"The boys…" She finally murmured, "…are my boys? Did Scott? Did he-"

The bird's hands tightened around the side of the broken driver's side window, leaving dents in the rubber as the injured woman eventually trailed off – her voice breathy and strained as she tried to look behind her, but couldn't.

She didn't know. _Christ_.

The piece of metal that had scored through her had limited her range of movement. The angle and the position she was in meant she couldn't turn around. And the outside mirrors had been stripped off the side of the SUV in the resulting attack. Who knows how long she'd been there? With that type of wound it was hard to say, hours, maybe a day? She'd probably been going in and out of consciousness for hours, delirious with blood loss and trauma. She had no way of knowing. No way of knowing that one of her boys, his little body all pale and blue in the back seat, had been there all along, dead on impact.

He swallowed, hard.

Heat rose to his face as the moment stretched. He hesitated. He had two choices and he didn't particularly relish either one of them. The woman made a soft sound, something terribly close to a whimper as he opened his mouth but nothing came out.

_Shit._

"They're safe, ma'am," he began, gnawing in the inside of his cheek as her features lit up. "They're with your husband," he lied, "They got away; they were looking for help and found us." His throat tightened as the lines around her mouth eased, lips trembling upwards into something close to a smile as the bird tried to catch his gaze from across the car.

But he didn't look up. He couldn't.

"Oh thank god, I was afraid they'd-" She rasped, her expression blissful and shot through with relief as she struggled to breathe.

The puppet shivered. Her blouse, a lacy thing with thin straps and a pearl button camisole was caked with layer after layer of partially congealed blood. Her lap was mess of red and old vomit, but he ignored it. He snatched up the coat that had been tossed onto the floor in the backseat and covered her the best he could, tucking the collar around her shoulders as the shivers turned into spasms. He winced as she coughed, gently bracing his hand against her shoulder as she leaned into him, unashamed, her clammy forehead soaking up the warmth radiating from his skin as a smear of red colored his forearm.

It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Can you…can you tell them to wait? I don't want them to see me like this – especially the boys," she shuddered, her fingers cold and weak as they curled around the small of his wrist.

He nodded, clasping her free hand unbidden, eyes straying down to her ruined torso before gently reaching down and uncurling the other from the piece of metal that disappeared into her chest. But despite his touch, she seemed to sink impossibly further into the cushions. Deflating, like a tired balloon as whatever strength she'd kept in reserve slowly drained out of her.

_Jesus, he was going to the special hell, he just knew it._

She was pretty, he realized. Pretty in the mature, conventional way that the girl next door eventually grows into a few years after high school. The kind that genuinely flowers as she makes her way out into the world, seeing, doing and being – but still managing to marry her high school sweetheart and settle down in a mirror of the town she'd grown up in.

Her nails, all worn gloss and dirty polish dug into his skin, sharp enough to hurt. And for reasons beyond him, he was glad - glad that it hurt. He wouldn't have known how to deal with it otherwise.

"I thought – I thought it was going to be different," she whispered, her voice hitching painfully as she exhaled. Her heart beat was slow…_too slow_ against his fingers, sluggish and inharmonious as her lashes fluttered – exhausted.

He didn't have it in him to ask her what she meant.

"Can you tell them? Tell them that I- …can you tell-? You will, won't you?" She paused, coughing.

"Of course," he murmured, "I'll tell 'em." Trying to remember everything he'd learned from Merle about lyin' as she seemed to look right at him – right _through _him as he gently squeezed her hand. Her skin was fragile and dry under his, and for a split second, he swore she knew.

His chest squeezed painfully when he looked up, unable to avoid the bird's eyes as she stared back at him. Her face a muddled mosaic of twisted shadows and tears as a series of emotions he couldn't find it in him to name flickered across her face. But for some reason, it steadied him – gave him purpose.

He knew what he had to do.

His fingers flirted with the hilt of his buck knife as the puppet choked, breathing unsteadily now as her sticky blond curls fell across her face, coughing up red in violent spasms – drowning from the inside out as her limbs twitched. Seizing weakly as the air grew rich with the musk of old blood and fresh urine.

He tucked her hair behind her ears, pretending not to notice the way she leaned into his touch, instinctively seeking him out as he untangled a thatch of hair from her earring. A jumbled mess of gleaming platinum and red-slicked blond as he cleared his throat – stalling.

_In for a penny…_

He loomed over her as he slowly unsheathed the knife. He played with the edge, as if to test its sharpness as he kept his eyes on her face. Her expression was pleading, tired. The blade glinted in the dying light as he leaned down and whispered in her ear. His lips almost brushed against her temples as he ducked his head and waited.

The seconds slid by. But he didn't move. Not even when Carol shifted uncertainly from the other side of the car. This wasn't about her. He counted down from a thousand, idly listening to the liquidy rasp of the woman's breathing. Her heartbeat was weak – barely there – almost as if she were hanging onto life by her fingertips, five seconds away from falling.

It wasn't until her heartbeat finally settled underneath his hands that the puppet nodded. Her wedding band glinting, burnished gold to go with his silver as she squeezed his hand. She closed her eyes – he could have wept in gratitude.

He waited until the bird turned away, idly looking off in the direction of home – an excuse to discreetly wipe at her tear-stained cheeks, before he quietly severed the puppet from her last string.

The bird didn't want to know. She didn't _have_ to know.

It was easy enough to play it off, to slump into himself and shake his head when she turned around and realized that the puppet wasn't breathing. She didn't say anything. Not how or when. She wanted to believe it, _him_.

There was an apology in the bird's eyes as he pulled the jacket up over the woman's face before he collected his crossbow and made to leave. He didn't ask why. He couldn't.

They were halfway down the road before he stopped and turned back. His spine was stiff backed and determined as she trailed after him, watching him duck back around the ruined car and open the passenger side, trying to work around the splintered piece of metal as the frame groaned, whinging under his weight. He doubled over the woman's prone form, reaching for something just out of sight.

He came back a few moments later with a pair of running shoes, all hanging white laces and gentle blood splatter as he offered them to her.

"Here, these look about your size."

The expression on her face was a rictus of horror and grief, but he didn't have time to coddle her. He just shoved the shoes into her chest and stalked past her. There was a question poised on the edge of her lips, he could feel it, feel it in the same way he could feel her eyes boring into his back. But she remained silent.

_Thank Christ._

It took a long time for the scent of blood and Chanel number five to fade from his skin, almost the same length of time that it took for her to stop feeling guilty about wearing a dead woman's shoes. Because even he was unable to miss the delicate little sighs of relief that eventually rose up as she kept pace behind him.

He might have smiled. Her relief and pleasure were as infectious as her footsteps were light as she trotted through the underbrush at his side - her body moving with a grace that had been noticeably absent when she'd been confined to her heels.

At least _someone_ was happy.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I am having quite a lot of fun with this; I am thrilled you are all enjoying! The next chapter should be up soon!

_"Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings."_ – Victor Hugo


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead". As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Seven**_

It was a long time before either one of them spoke, long enough for the road to start dipping downwards, angling south in a gradual incline that indicated that they were _finally _nearing the lakefront. They finished the jerky not long after that, counting their chickens before they hatched, he supposed – but by that point he was too hungry to care. Or perhaps more pointedly, too hungry to refuse the bird when she insisted that he take the last piece. Fixing him a look he was only too happy to avoid when he finally snatched it from her fingers. _Women_.

He chewed it slowly, determined to make it last.

They passed a few houses, cabins mostly. There were a smattering of vacation homes, the ones with the fake wood paneling and the perfectly manicured front lawns - likely some city-slicker's idea of 'getting in tune with nature' or some shit. Most had gaping front doors and broken windows, smashed in roofs and off-color webs that shrouded the walls in muted halos of sticky white. But others, nothing, with the odd home standing seemingly untouched, welcoming. But they didn't risk it, not even when the canteen ran dry.

Appearances weren't just deceiving, they were often deadly.

But even he had to admit that he was starting to get desperate. Night had fallen and they were caught in the open – pausing at three way intersections and awkward forks in the road, using the bird's tiny, purse-sized flashlight to read the street signs. He lost track of how many times he'd asked her if she recognized anything - homes, roads, landmarks - but she just shook her head. Frustration and desperation clouded her gaze as her cell beeped discouragingly, the sound oddly muffled in the surrounding mist.

"Why do you hunt?" she asked eventually. Breaking the tension as night settled around them, making it impossible to see more than a few inches ahead as the bird's flashlight eventually spluttered – fading in and out a handful of times before dying completely.

He couldn't see the moon. Everything was shrouded, _close_.

The question took him by surprise, but more because of her interest than the question itself. He wasn't used to people actually giving a shit. He was used to people using him up, wearing him down and then discarding him afterwards, like a used rubber - like something that was not worth keeping.

But she didn't. Not yet anyway.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she walked beside him, keeping pace with him easily now – despite her exhaustion, her expression tense but encouraging as her fingers twisted around the straps of her purse. Probably a nervous habit.

_She was a tough little thing, he'd give her that._

A dozen answers leapt readily to mind, all perfectly accurate and believable in their own right. To eat, for the challenge, the sport, because it was what he did – what a _Dixon_ did, because it was none of her god damn business, and so on. But he surprised himself by answering her honestly.

"To feel alive," he replied. Deliberately not looking back as she paused, her steps turning hesitant for a split second before she fell back into place beside him – back into the rhythm, the soothing grate of shoe soles meeting the pavement as her expression turned thoughtful.

He'd surprised her, he could tell that much right away. He wasn't sure why, but it made him want to continue. It made him want to _make_ her understand. Carefully playing around with the notion that he actually gave a flying crap what she thought of him before he tossed it - unwilling to examine it any further as he shook his head and soldiered on. After all, he'd come this far, there didn't seem much harm in continuing.

"I've spent most of my life in the woods, back in Georgia," he explained. "Learning to make it out here, out in the wild was probably the only useful thing Merle ever taught me," he grunted, too used to the truth of it for the words to sting.

"I ain't like you, don't wanna be either. The city, people, it's all fake, stifling - _synthetic_. Out here you get everything at face value. No lies, no hidden costs or upfront fees. It's natural, real – simple. It ain't kind any more than it is inherently evil or naturally apathetic. It just is. But it provides for you if you provide for it. A man don't need anything more outta life than that."

"We all have wildness in us. I'm just honest about letting it out," he finished, pausing for a moment as something rustled in the brush off to their left. It could be a deer, something normal – harmless. But then again, when had they ever been that lucky?

She appeared to think about it, teeth tugging at her lower lip before the corners tilted upwards. Her expression was cheeky and surprisingly daring as she turned around and blithely replied, "Huh, well, I knit."

For the first time in a long time, he laughed until he thought he was going to be sick. His voice was raspy and awkward - unused, like it had been decades since the last time he'd truly laughed.

It was nearly twilight by the time she grabbed his arm, so excited he actually forgot to flinch. Her eyes glinted as she whispered, her expression alive with a filtering by-play of shadows that reflected in the low light. So close in his ear that he could feel the warmth of her breath as she bounded forward.

"That's my neighbor's house!"

And soon enough they rounded on the place from behind, just like he'd promised. It was a nice enough place, a fixer upper with a sagging back porch and clogged gutters. It was homey though, respectable.

Her breath caught in her throat when the house came into view. He half expected her to bolt, to race ahead like she had on the road only a few hours before. But she didn't. Instead she crowded close, the action unconscious and instinctive as he advanced, crossbow up. He could practically _taste _her fear. Fear of what they would find inside, fear of what they _wouldn't._

The bird turned the key in the lock, both of them wincing when it opened grudgingly, all squeaking hinges and rusty springs.

It was a simple enough nest, decent. It was made in the ranch style with two floors, a wraparound deck and a root cellar. But it reeked of compromise, of a hasty decision and forced settlement. It was wrong, wrong for _her_, right down to the very foundations. Hell, even the furniture didn't fit, all smooth and streamlined, at odds with the more rustic atmosphere with the faded hardwood and flowered wallpaper. It was like comparing a stallion to a draft horse, it just didn't fit. Even the appliances looked out of place. Hell, it seemed like everything she owned came out of one of those fancy-ass magazines you see at the tills at the grocery store. Trying and failing to fit together with the faded, honey-pearl walls and the glitter-flecked ceiling that was about thirty years out of date.

Perhaps the metaphor of a bird was more accurate than he'd realized, because by the look if it, she was a bird that had been caught in the act of spreading her wings.

He scanned the halls, ignoring her as she crowded behind him. The place looked safe enough, at least for now. The bird hadn't been lying when she'd said she'd only just moved in, the first floor was basically a _sea _of boxes, crumpled newspaper and stray packing peanuts. Everywhere he looked there were framed photos, knick-knacks and art propped up against the walls, with towers of boxes labeled 'kitchen' and 'pantry' having been inexplicably stacked in the mud room, living room, and front entrance rather than where they should have been.

It was a mess, but a surprisingly organized one.

He took it in with a critical eye. The house looked untouched. The doors and windows were all intact. No webs. No damage. But it was too early to say they were in the clear.

"Wanda? Victor?..." she hissed, her voice hardly above a whisper as he put a finger to his lips as they paused. _Listening._

It wasn't until a full minute had passed that he motioned for her to go ahead.

He followed her through a maze of halls, stepping over unpacked boxes and flattened bubble wrap. He paused, letting his eyes flicker over a mess of toys and upturned boxes in the room across from the kitchen, styrofoam and packing plastic were strewn across the den as if someone had been caught in the middle of unpacking and suddenly dropped everything.

"Wanda? Baby, its mommy, where are you sweetheart?"

It didn't take him long to suss out that maybe he wasn't the only one who had been running. There was no sign of a husband, a male, or anyone else save for the three of them. All the pictures were of the bird and her chicks. There were no empty beer cans, worn ball caps or scuffed size ten sneakers. Couple all that together with a sudden move and it all started to make sense.

_The bird was smarter than he gave her credit for._

Whoever he was, the man hadn't deserved her – _them. _You'd have to be a fool to give all this up - a little woman, a family, the apple pie life? Wasn't that what every man wanted? Idiots and assholes not withstanding.

They made their way up the stairs cautiously, chewing on the inside of his cheek when the house shifted, _settling_ as the grandfather clock, still partially wrapped in thin, packing paper downstairs chimed out the hour. _2am._

He pushed past her when they reached the second floor, wincing when his foot caught on a loose floorboard, the high pitched creak echoing loudly in the quiet. _Damnit_. He kept her behind him. A steady presence at his back as he edged around the landing, crouching slightly as the cluttered hallway of the floor above slowly became visible.

A muffled thump issued from somewhere above their heads, too loud, too _concentrated_ to be explained away as the house shifting or a sound floating in from the outside. The bird had her mouth open to call out, but he shook his head. His fist snapping up in a sharp negative as something tickled on the edge of his senses.

His bow came up, finger tight on the trigger. _They weren't alone._

He caught her eye in the gloom, face alive with the conflicting expressions of fear and hope "Attic?" He mouthed. She nodded.

They waited. The silence stretched. Nothing. Then-

"…Mommy?"

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This is more to come! Stay tuned!

**Reference:** In the movie, Melissa McBride's character has two children that she left alone at home in order to go grocery shopping. Her daughter, Wanda, is eight years old, and her younger brother Victor, whose age is not specified.

_"It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds."_ – Aesop


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead". As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Eight**_

He hung back as the kids, a tangle of dirty t-shirts, thin little limbs and tear-streaked faces, all but tumbled out of the crawl space. The boy, dark haired and sharp, was the first one out, scrambling down the ladder and straight into his mother's arms - whereas the girl, dirty blond and cautious, followed in his wake, burying her face into the bird's jacket with a relieved sound.

It wasn't long before the both of them were staring at him distrustfully. Their gazes were bold now that they were safely tucked under their mother's wing. He stared back, shouldering his crossbow in a smooth motion as he crossed the hall, peering out one of the upper windows looking for any sign of movement from outside.

_Let 'em look._

"Mommy, who is that man?" It was the boy that said it, Victor, he thought. And in spite himself, the corners of his lips twitched, trying to rationalize such a serious name for a face that young. Wanda and Victor – it sounded like something off of a bad soap opera on TV. Like something someone's meddling maiden aunt had had a hand in on baptism day.

Once the little brats hit high school the other kids were going to eat them alive.

But instead of looking up, instead of turning away from the window and interjecting with his own name, he let the bird struggle. He said nothing when her mouth opened then closed, awkward without his intervention. But eventually she managed, sending him an irritated look, something that said 'you are doing this on purpose just to make my life difficult' and 'get over yourself' all at the same time before she answered.

_Sassy little bird._

"This man found me on the road. He saved me. He helped me get back to you," she answered. "I wouldn't have made it without him," she finished, smile going warm as the muscles between his shoulders itched.

"Is he going to stay?" the girl asked, only to be interrupted by her brother as he eagerly jumped in, "is he going to fight the monsters, Mommy? Did he kill any of the-"

"I don't know baby, we only just got here. We'll have to see," she answered, her expression both amused and apologetic as she squeezed their shoulders, pressing kisses into their hair as they took him in – wide eyed and ridiculously trusting.

The skin between his shoulders _burned_. There was something discomforting about being on the outside when faced with the eyes of children. Something that reminded him of the hours he'd spent hiding behind his grandma's faded old couch, breathing in the scent of Camel lights and cat as he listened to the people come and go. Crying – making noise – eating finger food and saying nice things about his Mama. They'd spoken in hushed whispers, despite the fact that no one had known he was listening, wondering aloud about what kind of husband didn't show up to his wife's wake – what kind of father would simply dropped off his children at their mother in law's and up and left town.

He'd heard snatches of things a child should have to never hear about their parents, about how there hadn't been enough of her left to fill the urn, or that his Papa, who was currently drinking his way through half the southwest, didn't even so much as call when the day of her funeral had come and gone.

"We can't stay long," he finally bit out, his tone earning him all three of their stares, nearly identical expressions of worry and confusion.

"I thought we'd be able to stay, to wait it out and-" the bird began, but he cut her off.

"It's been nearly three days, do you _hear _the cavalry?" he snorted, waving a hand around them as if to encompass the entire town. The action dismissive and almost unbelieving considering what they'd seen in the last twelve hours.

"Mommy, I don't want to leave," the girl piped up, tugging on her mother's sleeve as she buried her face into the bird's jacket, "It's scary outside."

_The fledgling had a point._

The bird's forehead creased, looking from him to her chicks, clearly weighing her options. But he knew better. Sure, the house _seemed _safe enough – for now. But that was the kicker, it wasn't a sure thing. It was a death-trap waiting to happen and if she thought he was going to wait around and play house, she had a whole other thing comin'.

"The police will come, right Mom? With the soldiers and tanks like on TV?" the boy piped up, looking positively gleeful about the prospect as he tugged on her arm, tired eyes suddenly alive with excitement.

"It's either go or die, kid." he grated, looking down at the leggy little thing through his fringe as the boy stared up at him, wide eyed, "Even if the military _had _stuck around, we don't have much of a choice. We're sittin' ducks."

He realized he'd screwed up about five seconds before it actually happened, witnessing the dominoes toppling in real time as the kid's chin suddenly quivered, lower lip trembling like the calm before the storm as _both _of them just started _bawling_.

_Fuckin' super._

The bird gave him the stink eye and sent him packing. Her expression alone was more than enough to light a fire under his ass as he took the stairs two at a time. He slowed his walk to a more dignified pace when he was out of earshot and headed off in the direction of the kitchen, figuring that since the bird had already eaten him out of house and home, the least he could do was return the favor.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

_"Each bird must sing with his own throat."_ - Henrik Ibsen


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead". As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

**Flutter**

_**Chapter Nine**_

She caught up with him halfway through a Tupperware container of leftover stew. It smelled a little off but it had been the only decent thing in there, rabbit food notwithstanding. Either way, he'd had worse.

She approached him carefully. Not cautious but conscious, conscious of the fact that the dynamics had changed. He'd done what he'd said he'd do, he'd gotten her home, reunited her with her chicks. He didn't owe her anything else, if he ever had in the first place, and she knew it.

Still, the question of 'now what?' hung between them, heavy and oppressive. He watched her from behind the fan of his lashes, searching her face for – _hell, he didn't even know. _He had no idea what he was doing. He wasn't used to this, to _people_. People like _her._

But if she was feeling the tension she didn't say a word. She just slid into the booth across from him, and with more ease than he was strictly comfortable, picked up a fork, nudged the container into the center of the table and dug in with relish.

They ate in silence.

"Where are the kids?" he finally asked, sloppy and rude, as he spoke in mid-chew, forgetting to feel self-conscious as the sound of little feet racing around on the floor above echoed in the relative silence.

"Upstairs, getting cleaned up," she hummed. "They'd been hiding up there since the beginning of this whole mess. A few minutes after the mist rolled in they heard a crash and screams from the neighbor's house. They shut themselves up in the attic pretty quick after that, watched the whole thing from the side window," she replied with a frown, picking out a piece of gravy-coated potato and popping it into her mouth with a troubled look.

He paused, considering. "Not the neighbor with the truck?"

"What? Oh no, _god_ no!" she cut in, shaking her head emphatically. "He isn't even here; this is just his summer home. Apparently he only comes up to the lake for a couple months a year," she explained.

"Loaded?" he snorted, the word coming out as half a question and half an insult as he stabbed his fork into the center of the dish, spearing a piece of pork with an irritated air.

"Must be, I sure wish I could afford half the stuff he seems to," the bird replied. "He showed me around the house a few days after we moved in, he keeps the truck here permanently and takes a cab from the airport."

"Lucky for us," he replied, not realizing the full implications of his response until the woman straightened in her seat. Her expression was alert and quietly hopeful as she paused in mid-bite, chewing slowly as she watched him lean backwards, maintaining the distance between them, at least in a small way before he made to speak.

_The cat was out of the bag anyway. _

"Tell them to go pack a bag, you too. Only what we need, mind. Only as much as you can carry if things go south," he allowed, punctuating the words with a few aggressive stabs of his fork, hunting around in the container for another cube of pork.

"You're sticking around then?" she asked, more of a statement then a question by now, but he let it slide. The implication of '_for now'_ hung over their heads, but neither of them chose to acknowledge it. They didn't have too.

"Said I would, didn't I?" he grunted, shifting a bit as a smile spread across her face, going all the way to her eyes as something playful reflected back at him. He felt his cheeks heat.

_Christ, he was in over his head._

"Besides," he began after a moment, uncharacteristically feeling the need to elaborate – anything to ease them out of the moment and back into the present. "I figure trying for this military camp of yours is as good a bet as any. Either way, we can't stay here."

"I agree, as much as I wish I didn't," she replied, letting the moment rest for a few beats before she answered, clearly still considering her options. "I don't fancy heading back out there, especially with the kids," she continued, a small shudder quivering across the length of her shoulders before tapering off, seeming to collect herself somewhat as she met his gaze.

_Brave bird._

"We are going to need supplies if we're planning on gettin' very far. If the state of the fridge and the pantry is anything to go by we are going to have to make a pit stop," he pointed out.

"My neighbor might have some non-perishables in his cupboards. I honestly don't know. We'll figure something out," she assured.

He just snorted.

"Do you have any tools? Anything that can be used as a weapon?" he asked, snatching a couple of crackers right from the pack before tossing the rest into the open backpack at his feet. They were going to need supplies, enough for a couple of days at least.

"I think I have a hammer around here someplace-" she began, gesturing off into the messy chaos that was her living room with a frustrated expression. "That'll have to do," he butted in, not content to wait as she listed off everything under the god damned sun.

_He had plans to make._

"Get the kids ready. We'll want to leave at first light," he added, this time a bit more gently. He surprised himself with the realization that he actually gave a damn before he shook his head, tucking that troublesome piece of information off in the back of his mind to dispose of later.

_He didn't need to dwell on that kind of shit._

He slid off the bench, feet aching as he rose, tossing his fork off in the direction of the sink as he snagged the shoulder strap of his crossbow between his thumb and forefinger and gestured off in the direction of the living room.

"I'm crashing on the couch. Get some sleep yourself, its gunna be long day tomorrow."

"You're sleeping?! _Now?_" she trilled, looking almost scandalized as the minor stampede from upstairs not so coincidentally fell silent. His lips quirked in spite of himself as the banister on the top of the stairs creaked, both chicks clearly eavesdropping now.

"Lady, I haven't slept in two days. I ain't gonna be any use to either one of us if I don't get some shut eye," he growled, realizing halfway through that his tone was nowhere near as firm as he'd intended.

_What was it about this broad that made him so-_

He left the room without waiting for her reply, only vaguely listening as she got up and put the stew back in the fridge, more out of habit than anything else, before heading upstairs. The chicks scattered, fooling no one as they skittered back to their respective rooms.

He didn't smile, but it was a near thing.

It wasn't long before the uproar from upstairs began in full swing. Something about clean shirts and school backpacks, he didn't quite catch it all. He was too busy picking his way through the maze of boxes and packing paper, using one of the candles they'd lit to navigate around in the dark.

He tossed a couple of boxes off the couch to make room, all but _sinking _into the plush, fake leather cushions with a grateful sigh. _Christ, he was beat. _He crossed his arms underneath his head, staring at the ceiling, listening as the bird's soft voice filtered through the vents above his head.

And not for the first time, he thought about leaving.

It wouldn't be hard; he could just slip away into the night with them being none the wiser. He didn't owe them anything after all. He was better off on his own, without a gravy train of baggage. The bird had been bad enough; imagine carting two kids through that mess.

He frowned into the armrest, thoughts roiling, _uneasy. _He'd always been better off by himself, no Merle, no Pa, just him and the open sky. He liked his life uncomplicated, thank you _very _fuckin' much. And this lot, the bird and her chicks, were about as complicated as life could get.

But perhaps being alone wasn't enough anymore. Perhaps-

He snorted, forcing the thoughts out of his mind as he rolled over, mashing one of the pillows underneath his head as he closed his eyes, resolute. _He couldn't afford to get distracted, not now._

He didn't know how he felt about it when he dug his face into the crease between the armrest and the cushion and realized that the couch smelled like her. Ignoring the fact that some part of him, however distance, realized it was actually soothing. …In a fucked up, oedipal sort of way – or perhaps just in a plain old sexual attraction sort of way – which he was definitely not thinking about either, by the way.

But again, he ignored it and for the first time since his mother passed, he dreamt.

_They were red_.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Sorry for missing last Friday's update. I should have something more by next Friday, stay tuned.


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